Stronger
by sora49
Summary: An Eyeshield 21 oneshot between Shin and my OC, about the hunger for perfection that is the shadow of true sportsmanship. It pretty much summarizes a fanfic I'm planning for the anime, so comments and suggestions on furthering the story are welcomed.


**Stronger**

by sora49

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I tried to watch all the episodes of Eyeshield 21 in one day – obviously, I failed, but I did get through the Death March. In particular, the short shots of Shin training left a bigger impression on me than any of the players' flashy moves. This is a oneshot of Shin and my traditional OC. Apparently, this snippet by itself isn't self-explanatory, so here's some background. I'm hatching a little storyline where Shin ends up with my OC (in this case named Sora Aoki); this oneshot is just a dramatic expression of the essence of the story. 

Admiring Shin's drive for American football, Sora starts practicing it as well, despite the fact that it isn't a girl's sport. Unlike him, she decides to excel in speed, not strength; she hopes that despite the difference, he'd eventually respect her as a fellow player. However, Shin sends her away to stop her from trying so hard in a sport she can't officially play, and so he can train harder without worrying her – but she believes that she wasn't strong enough to keep training by his side. Misunderstanding, they each train in their own way, trying to become perfect.

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Disclaimer: I do not own Eyeshield 21 – actually, I don't know who it _does_ belong to – and I apologize to any other fanfiction writers if either my storyline or my original character(s) resemble(s) theirs, as it is completely by accident. 

first posted: Wednesday, March 21, 2007  
updated: Tuesday, May 22, 2007

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Stronger. 

He enters a dark, silent room, the door clanging ominously shut behind him. Late afternoon sunlight streams in through a series of high windows; picking one pool of light and spreading a mat in it, he strips off his white-and-blue shirt and begins an effortless set of push-ups. Without the slightest sign of breaking a sweat, he continues, blank faced and empty-eyed, not even bothering to count.

She faces an empty track course; her lone shadow stretches out in the hazy light of the late afternoon sun. Surveying the course, she picks her lane – the outermost one – and begins to run. The soft thud of her feet against the dirt is the only sound on the field. After a lap or so, she closes her eyes, running by feel; two lone tears trail down her cheeks to spot the dusty ground in her wake.

Stronger.

He stops his push-ups when the sun no longer lights his mat – the setting sun has moved his pool of light further into the room. His only move is to stand up and pick up his mat to relocate it in the sunlight; after that, he lies back down on it, this time on his back, and begins an equally endless set of sit-ups. Although his face is still expressionless, his eyes show a hint of life: determination.

She moves to two white lines drawn in the center of the field: exactly forty yards apart with clipboards on the left corners. Starting at one line and tucking a football under her arm, she starts the stopwatch for her dash – stops it when she crosses the second line. After recording her time, she drops the clipboard, turns, and runs the forty yards again. And again. And again. This time, her eyes are dry.

Always stronger.

He stands up again only when the light is almost gone. Leaving the mat this time, he steps into a dim pool of sunlight against the far wall; his face, arms, and upper body glisten with sweat. Uncaring, he steps into a perfect handstand, hold it – and then begins another set of push-ups. His eyes burn with a sportsman's hunger for perfection as sweat drips off his body, staining the concrete floor.

She is silhouetted by the blinding hemisphere of the dying sun as she dashes the length of the field to dive and catch the ball she relentlessly hurls for herself. Exhausted, she stumbles and falls heavily – but when she picks herself up again, her eyes hold only the mindless drive to do better. She picks up the football, throws it again, and runs after it . . . but now it is blood that drips down to wet the thirsty ground.

They fight on to reach the title of 'the strongest': unattainable perfection.


End file.
